


Immortal Bonds

by Fantasio



Category: The Immortal Augustus Gladstone
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, augustus is indeed a vampire, yuletide treat 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:53:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantasio/pseuds/Fantasio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Comte de Montesquiou comes back for his Southern friend. A little post-canon vignette.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immortal Bonds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laughingpineapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingpineapple/gifts).



  _I am a vampire_

_I am a vampire_   
  
_I am a vampire_   
  
_And you're my dark angel_

 

_With black and broken wings you fly_

_Into the night_

_With black and broken wings you fly_

_Into my heart_

 

 **Vast**  -  _I Am A Vampire_

\------------------- 

It had finally come. After so many years spent waiting, hiding in the shadows of decrepit buildings, far from sight, far from any living souls. The witching hours had come at last.

The sun was setting over Portland; the glow it cast over the tall buildings and the harbor was eerie. The intricate play of shadows and light it created was beautiful, and it gave the concrete an appearance of warmth and comfort. Yet, would have one went to touch it, they would have found it cold and hard and as dead as ever before. But no one ever thinks of the metaphysics of stone, do they?

So mused the man standing in one of the city's cemetery, his tall and lank figure casting a shadow over the austere, recently-dug grave in front of him. He had come a long way, and must have been extremely tired, for his face would have looked elongated and pale to an external onlooker. Strangely, it was way past closing gates time, and yet, nobody came to escort him away.

But then, his entire journey had been full of people avoiding him. When he first departed from France, everyone he had passed by would either look up at him and then quickly look down again, or simply snigger in that immortal, condescending Gaelic fashion. Here, in the United States of America, it was a bit different. He seemed to make people more quizzical about himself than anywhere else he had been in the world. Smiling men-even now, it was so often men-would come up at him to chat, then really look at his eyes and skin and clothes and ask if he was alright. When he answered in a French accent, they generally left, or, thinking he was some foreign movie star, asked for _autographs_.

But Robert Montesquiou was used to all that nonsense. He had always been one of a kind, after all. But what kind? That he would never say out loud.

High French society had once accepted him in its rank, without questioning anything more than his taste in clothes and the quality of the wine he drank. But that was a long time ago now, and times had changed. Not only in France, but everywhere. Things had died, then other had appeared; and then, sometimes, dead things had been reborn. The waves were unending and yet they threw everything away on the shore. Even Marcel Proust had lost his run against lost time. But Montesquiou did not bear any grudges to Chronos. He knew the passing of the years and the changes of the seas were part of life and its many pleasures. The only thing was, he should not have seen them changed. He should have passed away gloriously, in a final decadence of alcohol and volupté. But some things weren't meant to be.

Thankfully, he had had company for all these years, while Paris crumbled under wars, modernity and towering buildings-very much like those in this foreign and strange city at the other side of the world.

His home was still intact, though. Hidden behind heavy tapestries, in a decayed 1940s Hausmanian building, the Comte de Montesquiou still lived, and breathed, and loved. Although that last part had been growing more and more impetuous in the last few decades.

The elegant aristocrat knelt down next to the tombstone, the last ray of the sun caressing it while he ran his fingers over the words engraved into the rustic stone. _Augustus Gladstone_. He had always been so careless in his ability to trust people, that chap. He had never understood the need to hide, the need to lie and disappear at sun's dawn. He had always been attracted to bright new things, dangerous things for them both. Although, to be fully honest with himself, Montesquiou realized he had probably been the one introducing his American friend to most of the hedonistic pleasures they had both enjoyed, together or apart.

Then, just after the First World War, Augustus had left.

 But now, Montesquiou decided, was no time for grievances and bitterness. Now was the time for reunion.

Slowly, Robert moved over to stand next to the headstone. Then, towering over the name of his friend, he stood directly in front of the sun, his arms opened up towards the sky. Ancient words, incomprehensible to modern ears, came up to his lips. They were neither in French nor English, but instead formed a strange litany, seemingly from some forgotten language whose very vocal inflexions sounded as if they were half-buried in sand.

As Robert finished his incantations, he felt the earth beneath his feet begin to move slightly. He knelt down next to the now-alive grave, and, reaching inside his coat pocket for a small shovel, immediately got to work.

The crew that had buried Augustus obviously did follow his instructions word for word, for it was only a minute or so before Robert was able to feel a hand grabbing his own from underneath the earth. By no means alarmed, Montesquiou smiled and, pulling backwards as hard as he could, he finally unearthed Augustus Gladstone from his premature ending bed.

The next minutes were spent dusting Augustus off, exchanging polite words of endearment and, eventually, locking each other in a tight embrace as the sun concluded its fall over Portland.

The two men then walked out of the cemetery together, Montequiou's arm around Augustus' waist, conversely whispering words about a new shared life on the other side of the world. The grave that had previously held Augustus Gladstone now looked as undisturbed as before. Nobody could have believed what just happened there -life winning over death, foreign bonds rekindled, history contradicted then assuaged. Only the wind could now be heard, blowing fallen leaves over silent graves. Like dust finally setting over time, the endless book of Augustus Gladstone's life closed in order for the next one to be opened. Only this time, it would be in shared, immortal company. In life as in death.

**Author's Note:**

> There you go, dear recipient! :) I hope my take on Robert and Augustus' relationship and their life ever after managed to meet some of the requirements of your prompt. A very happy Yuletide from your Goat! :D


End file.
